


All The Difference

by DaydreamingofDragons



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, talking about feeings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamingofDragons/pseuds/DaydreamingofDragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran and Brosca reflect on their choices</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Difference

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on first meetings from the Zevran/Warden week on tumblr.

"I have a question for you, if I may?"   
  
Brosca grunts an acknowledgment. It is the long silence that follows that makes him lever his face out of the pillows with a groan and give Zevran some attention. He is lying next to Brosca, tangled blanket dragged over the both of them, propped up on one elbow and looking far too serious for Brosca's liking. Not quite uncharacteristic, but worrying.   
  
The silence stretches out, Zevran frowning and Brosca growing increasingly uneasy. "Well?" he prompts when he can’t stand the tension any longer.   
  
For a moment he thinks Zevran will think better of whatever it is, make some filthy comment to change the mood and lead into sex or sleep. Then he catches the determined angle of Zevran's jaw and knows he won’t be so lucky.   
  
"It has occurred to me to wonder,” a brief hesitation, only a second or two but long enough for Brosca to dread what Zevran might have wondered, “exactly why you saw fit to spare my life?" Lightly asked, like it has simply been a passing thought. Brosca knows Zevran rather better than that.   
  
He swallows around a curse, around hysterical laughter. It has occurred to  _ Zevran  _ to wonder. Well, he isn’t the only one.   
  
_ Blood in his eyes, running down his face. The taste of it in his mouth, probably his grin is bloody as he drags his knife from the last attacker's stomach and slashes it across their throat, cutting off their scream. They collapse, thrashing desperately but briefly, and the sudden silence is jolting. He gives himself a moment, sucking in great gulps of air and proving he is still alive. _ __  
__  
_ By the wagon he finds Leliana kneeling by the body of the apparent leader. "He dead?" _ __  
__  
_ "Not yet." He had thought them soft, the little he had heard of them, these surfacer priests and their god. Leliana is not soft, not when lives depend on it. He wonders how much else of what he knows might turn out to be a load of nug shit. _ __  
__  
_ The man groans and shifts and Brosca weighs his knife in his hand. Easy enough to finish him off. Not for the best perhaps though. Not yet, when he might still have useful information. Just as easy to kill him later, after he's been told them everything. _ __  
_  
_ __ "Tie him up."

Zevran’s hand firm and heavy on his shoulder brings him back. The urge to knock it away is overwhelming. “What’s it matter?” Brosca growls instead. What ever possessed Zevran to ask him that, he can’t say. He can’t  _ answer _ . Won’t lie and can’t tell the truth: he has no idea. He shouldn’t have, and the thought sickens him even as he has it but it’s the truth.

_ I see you haven’t killed me yet _ . And  _ yet _ had been right. He had been going to. And… hadn’t. In Orzammar he’d have been killed for an act of such reckless stupidity. By Beraht, if the deed itself didn’t come back to bite him in the ass. Mercy has never been a part of his job description.

“Should I not wonder? It was a matter of some importance to me after all.” It does matter to Zevran, it seems. His brow creases with what Brosca recognises as concern but he doesn’t  _ let it go _ . His hand is  _ still  _ on Brosca’s shoulder, Brosca’s hands clenched into fists in the sheets to stop  himself shoving Zevran away.

“Why did you even ask? I didn’t think you wanted to be  _ saved _ .” Brosca spits the words and regrets them the same instant. Not fair. A truth Zevran had trusted him with, not a weakness for him to claw at and use.

Zevran’s fingers dig brutally into his shoulder for an instant, before he releases him and rolls away. Where Brosca felt smothered before, he is left bereft. He takes a deep breath. Still angry; he can’t let that go so easily. But he won’t use it as an excuse. “Sorry,” he mutters, hoping it sounds less grudging to Zevran’s ears than to his. “Zev, I -”

“No, my warden,” Zevran interrupts, turning his head and smiling fleetingly at him. “I did start the dreadfully invasive personal conversation, after all.” He lies back and stares up at the ceiling. Brosca waits, forcing himself to silence. He certainly owes Zevran an answer more than he is owed one, but still he doesn’t have one to give.

“Opportunity,” is all Zevran says when he finally speaks. Brosca frowns, trying to follow the thought.

“Huh?”

Zevran turns on to his side again, rolls easily into Brosca’s space without touching him. “You. A most unique opportunity. You had just proven yourself formidable. If you could stand against me, certainly you could resist the Crows.” Brosca fights back a grin at Zevran’s audacity; the easy way he declares himself the best of them. “To run, alone and unaided, no. It would not work. But with an ally, if I put my skills at your disposal? That way might lie freedom. The possibility was unexpected.” He pauses a moment, meets Brosca’s eyes and smiles apologetically. “In truth? I did not expect you to agree. And yet, what did I have to lose by asking? The Crows would have killed me simply for asking the question. Mercy is not much in their line. But, you were not them.”

Brosca drags in a harsh breath and feels rather like Zevran has kicked him in the chest.  _ You were not them _ . It hits him with more power than Zevran could have known it would. Self-evident, of course. Except that it hadn’t been.  _ You are not them _ . Not a Crow, certainly. But not Carta either. The Carta would never have stood for him leaving a threat such as Zevran alive. But he was not Carta. Zevran, bound and bleeding. Himself, knife in hand. Both with a possibility open to them that they hadn’t known they had until the moment came.  _ What a pair we make _ .

Zevran’s hand is soft against his cheek. His fingers just brush the earring Brosca wears, the new piercing still sore. “Because I could,” Brosca says into the quiet. “Because I wanted to.”  _ Because you asked _ , he doesn’t say. Not yet. A different truth, instead. “I’m glad I did.”

Zevran laughs, warm and pleased, drawing a smile from Brosca in return. A ridiculous thing for anyone to say to their lover, really. And yet. “As am I,” Zevran breathes and leans in to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —  
> I took the one less traveled by,  
> And that has made all the difference."  
> \--Robert Frost
> 
> Originally posted on my [tumblr](http://daydreamingofdragons.tumblr.com/post/148418728879/zevwarden-week-day-1).


End file.
